foolish
ideas,” she warned, remembering their heated kiss under the stairs. She herself tried to ignore his taut abdomen and firm
back.
He chuckled but allowed her to lead him up the wooden staircase.
They stepped into the small kitchen, and she helped lower him into one of the chairs. She was painfully aware of how confined
the space felt with his large masculineform there. Her aunts immediately went about gathering the items they needed: a small
bowl of water, tweezers, a clean rag, and some makeshift bandages. For a moment, she was back in the kitchen in their cottage
in Essex preparing to care for one of the villagers who’d had an accident with a hoe or who had gotten into a brawl after
imbibing too much whiskey. There everything had been peaceful, but here in London, life moved at a much quicker pace. Though
she had always considered herself a calm person, the bustle kept her on edge.
But they weren’t in Essex, and this man was not one of their own. He did not know of their ways or of their capabilities.
And she would risk much in sharing them, but his complexion had paled, and his coat was heavy with his blood loss. They had
no choice; they certainly couldn’t risk his bleeding to death or developing a life-threatening infection.
“Don’t forget the salve,” Sabine said.
“Truly?” Lydia asked. Her three aunts exchanged looks.
“Yes,” Agnes said. “We will need the salve.”
Lydia would not question Agnes. As the guardian, she was the Healer, and the elixir would be used as she deemed necessary.
They would never have even paused to consider its use on a villager. But this stranger would notice when his wound healed
twice as fast as it ought.
While Agnes gave further instructions, Sabine pulled Max’s coat off his shoulders and down his arms.
Blood stained his white shirt, coloring a large section of his chest beneath his right shoulder.
“Damn,” he swore.
Calliope stepped forward with a glass of deep-red liquor. “Here, this should help with the pain.”
“A lady after my own heart.” He raised the glass in a toast, then winced. “Thank you.” He downed it in one gulp.
He tried with one hand to unbutton his shirt, but he took too long, so Sabine swatted his fingers out of the way. “Here,”
she said. Her deft fingers worked the buttons swiftly, though she would have sworn she’d felt them shaking ever so slightly.
There would be no reason for that, though. On more than one occasion, she’d helped Agnes tend to men’s wounds. She pulled
the shirt the rest of the way off and exposed his wound.
It was caked in blood, and she could not see enough of the actual bullet hole to gauge the true damage. Blond hair covered
his torso, but in the wound area, it had matted. Without warning, she ran the wet rag against the wound. Rivulets of blood
and water dripped down his arm.
“That stings,” he growled.
Sabine had to clean the wound. Perhaps in her determination to ignore his fine form, her ministrations were rougher than she’d
intended. “Don’t act like a child,” she warned. “Besides, it’s not that deep.” She caught Agnes’s eyes as she obviously lied
to Max.
Agnes nodded almost imperceptibly.
Sabine hoped he wouldn’t notice that it was, in fact, quite deep. The best thing for all of them was to convince him the injury
hadn’t been that bad to begin with, and then he might not be so curious when it healed quickly. They needed to patch him up
and send him on his way before he became suspicious of their ways. Now that the Chosen One was searching for Agnes, they all
had to be extremely vigilant.
A cold chill shivered down Sabine’s neck. What if
this man
was the Chosen One? Her hand stopped midstroke, and she met Max’s eyes—clear blue and lined with realpain. No, Madigan would
have known if Max was the Chosen One. He had their map, and he considered himself a scholar, though he’d referred to himself
as an
ideas,” she warned, remembering their heated kiss under the stairs. She herself tried to ignore his taut abdomen and firm
back.
He chuckled but allowed her to lead him up the wooden staircase.
They stepped into the small kitchen, and she helped lower him into one of the chairs. She was painfully aware of how confined
the space felt with his large masculineform there. Her aunts immediately went about gathering the items they needed: a small
bowl of water, tweezers, a clean rag, and some makeshift bandages. For a moment, she was back in the kitchen in their cottage
in Essex preparing to care for one of the villagers who’d had an accident with a hoe or who had gotten into a brawl after
imbibing too much whiskey. There everything had been peaceful, but here in London, life moved at a much quicker pace. Though
she had always considered herself a calm person, the bustle kept her on edge.
But they weren’t in Essex, and this man was not one of their own. He did not know of their ways or of their capabilities.
And she would risk much in sharing them, but his complexion had paled, and his coat was heavy with his blood loss. They had
no choice; they certainly couldn’t risk his bleeding to death or developing a life-threatening infection.
“Don’t forget the salve,” Sabine said.
“Truly?” Lydia asked. Her three aunts exchanged looks.
“Yes,” Agnes said. “We will need the salve.”
Lydia would not question Agnes. As the guardian, she was the Healer, and the elixir would be used as she deemed necessary.
They would never have even paused to consider its use on a villager. But this stranger would notice when his wound healed
twice as fast as it ought.
While Agnes gave further instructions, Sabine pulled Max’s coat off his shoulders and down his arms.
Blood stained his white shirt, coloring a large section of his chest beneath his right shoulder.
“Damn,” he swore.
Calliope stepped forward with a glass of deep-red liquor. “Here, this should help with the pain.”
“A lady after my own heart.” He raised the glass in a toast, then winced. “Thank you.” He downed it in one gulp.
He tried with one hand to unbutton his shirt, but he took too long, so Sabine swatted his fingers out of the way. “Here,”
she said. Her deft fingers worked the buttons swiftly, though she would have sworn she’d felt them shaking ever so slightly.
There would be no reason for that, though. On more than one occasion, she’d helped Agnes tend to men’s wounds. She pulled
the shirt the rest of the way off and exposed his wound.
It was caked in blood, and she could not see enough of the actual bullet hole to gauge the true damage. Blond hair covered
his torso, but in the wound area, it had matted. Without warning, she ran the wet rag against the wound. Rivulets of blood
and water dripped down his arm.
“That stings,” he growled.
Sabine had to clean the wound. Perhaps in her determination to ignore his fine form, her ministrations were rougher than she’d
intended. “Don’t act like a child,” she warned. “Besides, it’s not that deep.” She caught Agnes’s eyes as she obviously lied
to Max.
Agnes nodded almost imperceptibly.
Sabine hoped he wouldn’t notice that it was, in fact, quite deep. The best thing for all of them was to convince him the injury
hadn’t been that bad to begin with, and then he might not be so curious when it healed quickly. They needed to patch him up
and send him on his way before he became suspicious of their ways. Now that the Chosen One was searching for Agnes, they all
had to be extremely vigilant.
A cold chill shivered down Sabine’s neck. What if
this man
was the Chosen One? Her hand stopped midstroke, and she met Max’s eyes—clear blue and lined with realpain. No, Madigan would
have known if Max was the Chosen One. He had their map, and he considered himself a scholar, though he’d referred to himself
as an
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